


Head

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-15
Updated: 2007-07-15
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8705281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: “I’m a dick. I know. And here I was, ready to girl up and hug.” Part of the Wages of Sin 'verse. Sequel to "Arousal."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

> Title: Head  
>  Fandom: Supernatural  
>  Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean  
>  Rating: NC-17  
>  Words: 4,926  
>  Warnings: wincest  
>  Spoilers: up to Folsom Prison Blues.  
>  Beta: [ ](http://allysonsedai.livejournal.com/profile)[**allysonsedai**](http://allysonsedai.livejournal.com/) is my hero. b29;  
>  Summary: “I’m a dick. I know. And here I was, ready to girl up and hug.”  
>  Notes: [ Wages of Sin](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=calicokat&keyword=Supernatural:+Wages+of+Sin&filter=all) 'verse. Sequel to ["Arousal."](http://calicokat.livejournal.com/215143.html)  
>    
>  Supernatural and all related properties © and TM 2007 Warner Bros. Entertainment, Inc. © and TM The CW Network 2007, and are used without permission.  
>    
>    
>    
>   

**Head**  
by [ ](http://calicokat.livejournal.com/profile)[**calicokat**](http://calicokat.livejournal.com/)

  
  
  
  
  
  
Dean slid into the driver’s seat of his hardtop black baby, tossing the bag of Chick-fil-A across the drive shaft into Sam’s arms. The drive thru line snaked all the way around the parking lot, behind them.  
  
Dean’s hand paused on the door handle before he’d even pulled it shut. Sam sat staring at him, uncomfortably quiet, his big body still as a stone. Dean waited, eyes narrowing. Sam swallowed, determination on his square cut face.   
  
“We should lose the Impala.”  
  
“What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?” Dean twitched like he’d been socked in the face. Now Sam’s body came alive, that first blow solid and Sam pressing the advantage.  
  
“How many black, 1967 Chevrolet Impalas have you seen since we’ve hit the road together?”  
  
Dean’s brow creased, deep in thought. He counted the number of circa-1960 Impalas they’d seen on their cross country trip. Only a handful. A 67’, freakish bright purple. A blue 61’ convertible with the old, silver fins. A black 69’ two door…A couple of others, but none like his girl. A smile broke on Dean’s lips and his chest swelled with pride.  
  
“Just the one.”   
  
“Exactly.” Sam pronounced it cold, like a death sentence. Dean’s face fell with confusion. Sam drove the point home. “If Hendrickson makes our car, we’re looking at _life_ , Dean.”  
  
Anger leapt to Dean’s gullet. He got the point. He got it. Sam wanted his Impala sold into the hands of some soulless CarMax auto trader, or rusting in the back of a scrap yard.  
  
“She’s _my_ car,” Dean corrected, a cool breeze on the back of his neck from the open door, air loud with idling pussy-mobiles. “And we’re not goin’ _anywhere_ without her.”  
  
“We can leave it--…‘her’ at Bobby’s. He’ll keep her tuned up until--…”  
  
“Until what? Until doomsday?” Sam flinched with discomfort at Dean’s choice of words. Dean dug his fingers in the wound. “How many state lines has this car crossed with you in it? How many times did I burp you in this back seat before you had teeth?”  
  
“You’re talking about an _automobile_ , Dean.”  
  
Dean swallowed the urge to sock that patronizing snark straight out of Sam’s voice.  
“The Impala’s family. She’s stayin’ with us.”   
  
Sam’s eyes flashed, and he pushed himself up in his seat.  
  
“What part of _life in prison_ \--”  
  
The car-rocking **SLAM** of the driver’s side door startled Sam into silence.   
  
The Winchesters sat tense, on the precipice of a screaming fight. A long minute of quiet glaring, and the anger in Dean disappeared, leaving a hollow ache in his chest. He exhaled like air evacuating a blown tire. His voice ground gravely and low.  
  
“That’s final. So, deal with it. We change the plates, we move on.”  
  
Sam threw up his hands and slouched, miserable and grumpy, back down in his seat.  
  
When they got back to the motel, Sam made himself scarce. Disappeared to a library, or wherever Sam went when Dean provoked him past the point he was willing to sit and make Dean’s life miserable about it. Dean sat in the motel room and watched _Jurassic Park III_ on TBS while he worked through all the regional newspapers they’d been able to gather, John’s battered journal beside him on the plywood table.  
  
 

\----

  
  
“Is this _still_ about the car?”  
  
The moody lump of Sam on the other bed didn’t even grunt a reply. It took Dean back to the smaller, just-as-moody lump of teenager Dean and John had dragged around the country when Sam sprouted up into a temperamental fifteen year old -- lanky legs, long arms, and a volatile personality -- lurking in the Impala’s back seat.  
  
Dean groaned and dropped his head against the table -- the dull _thunk_ of bone on wood. The bitter stench of coffee from the steaming cup beside him soothing what could have otherwise been the dawn of a real bitchy mood.  
  
Dean picked his head up. He cleared his throat. He gave Sam a second chance. Hell knew the guy had been under more stress than anybody, lately.  
  
“This about the car, man?”  
  
“No,” Sam gave him, grudgingly. “I mean…Yeah. A little.” He gesticulated vaguely. “Can I just…sulk?”  
  
“That’s not really workin’ so well for me,” Dean apologized. Sam shot him a _look_ , and Dean grimaced.  
  
Dean returned to scouting newspapers. It was their second day in town, and Appalachia was coming up dry on paranormal danger. Then, Sam climbed out of bed.   
  
Sam started to pace back and forth over the threadbare wool carpet.   
  
Dean set his pen down beside the notebook.  
  
“Okay, buddy, are you just gunnin’ to piss me off?”  
  
“No, Dean.” Sam’s voice was slow and patient. “I’m trying to out think the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” The hair on the back of Dean’s neck prickled as Sam’s eyes slid to pin him under a hard stare.  
  
“…right,” Dean surrendered, wetting his dry lips. A cold lump sank in his stomach. “Keep that up.”  
  
Sam’s pacing stopped, minutes later, when he rested his head and a forearm against the motel room’s faded, paisley wallpaper, hands balled into fists. Big hands, like hocks of ham, and Dean didn’t want to be the wall on the receiving end of some physical outburst.   
  
Sam just slouched there, tension rigid through his back and shoulders.  
  
“When is it you unwind?” Dean folded his arms over his chest. Sam barked a laugh, and Dean rolled his eyes. “You haven’t kicked back with a beer since--…Since that bitch Meg took you for a joyride.”  
  
“I unwound,” Sam said, coldly. “One time.”  
  
Dean cringed -- the truth hurt -- and offered weakly:  
  
“Twice if you count Moses.”   
  
_Moses. Motel humid after a rare New Mexican rain shower. Sam’s shy curiosity about Dean’s aroused body and one genuine smile. Dean loved to be the one to put those smiles on Sam’s face, so rare and so contagious._  
  
“If I count Moses,” Sam’s dull voice reiterated, like maybe he didn’t.  
  
Exasperation flared in Dean’s chest. Sam’s back never made the greatest partner in conversations. Dean pushed himself out of his chair, the crick he rolled out of his shoulder reminding him his job only made him older, one day at a time.  
  
“It’s hard,” Dean commiserated. “I get it.”  
  
Sam pushed himself away from the wall, turning to face Dean, only to slump back against it.  
  
“No. You don’t. That’d be like me telling you…I know what it’s like to raise a six month old kid.” The crushed, pathetic expression on Sam’s puppy dog face twisted Dean’s stomach in knots, but he hoped the day never came where he could see Sam in pain and stand it.  
  
“Maybe I don’t get it,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t see it killin’ you.”  
  
Sam laughed, disbelieving.  
  
“Dean, that’s the _sweetest_ thing you’ve ever said to me.”  
  
Dean discovered the uncomfortable feeling that came on when a man talked to you like your man feelings made you a big old Nancy. Perplexion overcame his features, hackles rising. He blew it off, denying Sam the pleasure of watching his concern go down in flames.  
  
“I’m a dick. I know. And here I was, ready to girl up and hug.”  
  
Sam’s eyes dropped guiltily, down to some unidentifiable stain in the carpet. Dean approached Sam silently, wary, not because he thought Sam would slug him, but afraid that anything he did would turn his hurting little brother more morose. He pushed his hands down into his pockets.  
  
“How about we go out and drink? Me and you. Play some pool. Shoot some darts. ‘won’t even ditch you for the local T &A.” Dean flashed a playful smile. Sam only stared at the floor, a bell curve wrinkle of concern knitting his brow, every breath a slow, hard sigh. “…stay _here_ and drink?” Dean fished hopefully, unable to put his finger on Sam’s problem. A Winchester rarely met a hurt he couldn’t ease with the judicious application of alcohol: vodka on a wound or beer and whiskey down the hatch.  
  
Sam’s blue-brown eyes skirted up to Dean’s face. Dean felt Sam searching for something in him Dean didn’t think he had, because he didn’t have the first guess what it was. An old, familiar feeling clenched up his chest: that he _wasn’t enough_. Sam reminded him that every time he rolled his eyes, or ground his teeth; every time Dean wanted to tell him: _You know you love me, bitch_ \-- but, then, Sam did. Sam loved him. Sam just wanted all kinds of things out of life Dean didn’t have it in him to give. So, Dean recognized that lost and searching expression on his brother’s sad-eyed face, and Dean knew damn well Sam would come up empty handed.  
  
Until Sam reached out, and cupped his face in one big hand. Until Sam stumbled one step forward, and pressed his lips against Dean’s.  
  
Sam kissed him soft and hopeless, slow, lingering kisses, while Dean stood petrified.  
  
Fear burned like ice in Dean’s chest while he calculated every nasty thing they’d hunted that could have cursed Sam with an incestuous lust. Dean came up short of an explanation. Only one or two creatures fit the profile in the past two years, and none in the past two months.  
  
A slow-dawning paranoia suggested this was no spell, no curse. And if it wasn’t some jinx, just an accident of nature, seconds longer, and Sam would have to live with the painful fact of his brother’s rejection.  
  
So, Dean kissed Sam back.  
  
Kissing his brother was easier than Dean would’ve imagined, if Dean had ever imagined kissing his brother. Lips were lips, no matter who you kissed. Spit was spit, unless a mouth tasted like food, or booze.  
  
Where Sam’s lips had kissed hesitant and intermittently before, his gentle kisses grew feverish. His body trembled, skin damp with sudden cold sweat. Dean had no ground to negotiate, no leverage, hands in his pockets and Sam’s body so close. Only when Sam’s knees began to buckle did Dean reach out to support him. They sank to the floor, and Dean reached up to tuck Sam’s wild hair behind one ear. Dean stroked Sam’s cheek, soothingly. Dean broke that hungry string of fervent kisses, whispering _Easy…Easy…_  
  
“Is this what you want?” Dean asked. Sam nodded tightly, eyes pressed shut. But suddenly it became easier, because Dean knew what he needed to do. (His voice still scratched like a record jumping its groove.) “How long…?”   
  
Sam spoke so small and timid, so breathless and terrified -- so, pent up, and close to tears -- the word was barely audible.  
  
“Moses.” Sam dared to look at him, a tremor shivering in his lower lip.  
  
Dean nodded, jaw set, and leaned in still it with another, firm kiss. Dean parted Sam’s lips with his tongue, drawing him in, drawing him deeper.  
  
Dean closed his eyes, absorbed in Sam’s mouth, the wet slippage of tongues on tongues, the intimacy of softly dragging teeth over a lover’s lower lip. Or a brother’s. The barely-noticed bumps of noses. Sharing the same air. Everything that ever eased the loneliness and nagging insecurities and doubts within Dean, shared with the person whom Dean planned to spend the rest of his life beside.  
  
It didn’t give Dean pleasure. It didn’t give him joy. But relief swelled inside him. He’d take any Sam other than the recalcitrant, morbid Sam who’d been riding shotgun like a shadow since San Francisco.   
  
Apprehension clenched Dean’s stomach at the idea of making this final break -- creating this permanent schism -- with human society. Incest. The word sickened like a double shot of Pine-Sol. Dean still remembered clearly those first terrifying nights after the fire, curled in Sam’s cradle, Sam’s baby breath that smelled like slightly sour milk. Dean remembered Sam squirming in his lap while Dean read him picture books he’d just sussed out the vocabulary of, himself, stumbling over the longer words, because his elementary education came in fits and starts. Dean remembered forging John’s signature on school permission slips and driving Sam to and from after school activities where Sam never exactly but _almost_ fit in. He remembered sitting in the audience at spelling bees, Christmas pageants, and one school play, clapping and whooping until Sam’s cheeks beat red. Sam: flushed with equal parts embarrassment and pride. He remembered trying to keep up with Sam at college, those first two years, and slowly growing more estranged as Sam’s life became incomprehensible. (Then Sam mostly stopped picking up the phone. And maybe Dean did, too, once or twice.)  
  
Incest meant having given so much of himself to Sam, and taking in trade that body he’d watched grow from a pudgy baby to a pudgy toddler to a cute kid and a skinny, gangly teenager, up to the hunk of Sam and muscle tangled up in heavy petting with him, now.  
  
Dean didn’t think he could do that. _Take_ Sam. But Dean had never been able to deny Sam the things he wanted, and couldn’t stand the idea of his brother retreating into silent pain.  
  
They kissed until kissing felt like second nature, another aspect of the almost paranormal bond they shared from years of holding ground side by side in firefights against terror beyond a war veteran’s wildest nightmares. Their swollen lips parted with wet suction, a cooling string of mixed saliva connecting their mouths for a moments more and snapping suddenly while they hovered close, breathing labored.  
  
Dean couldn’t deny the erection stirring in his jeans.  
  
“Dean…” Sam murmured, in that voice that meant everything: brother, mother, and, now, something sensual. Apprehension remained, as well. They both, the two of them, recognized the precipice they teetered on the edge of and a chasm with no bottom in sight. “Do you even…?”  
  
Dean licked the kiss off his lips.  
  
“…I might be a little stiff, yeah.” The admission flushed shame all through him, but the childlike hope in Sam’s face pardoned his sin, even as his heartbeat pounded in his dick.  
  
“I’m scared, Dean,” Sam confided, seven years old and under the covers with a flashlight. “I’m scared _all the time_. Of my destiny. Of security cameras in gas stations. Of this…” His voice reached that whinging desperation that wrenched Dean’s heart straight out of his chest like Mola Ram in Indiana Jones’s acid trip bridge.  
  
Dean leaned in and pressed his lips chastely against his brother’s.  
  
“Don’t be afraid of this.”  
  
“Aren’t you…?”  
  
“It’ll pass.” Dean promised it in his words and with his eyes. It amounted to nothing more than a bump in the road. A hiccup. Like anything this raw -- a scrape, a wound -- it needed nothing more than time. Dean couldn’t let Sam down. “Can I see it…?”  
  
Sam searched Dean’s face without understanding. He caught his breath, audibly, when comprehension dawned. He looked unsure, and swallowed uneasily, but Dean muttered _It’s fine, man…_ and Sam reached down to the waistline of his pants, unfastening the button and unzipping his jeans with shaking fingers. He hissed, drawing his prick, already throbbing erect, from his pants. Dean had seen it once, and harder -- bigger. The thing was already half again the size of Dean’s, and Dean took pride in having a healthy erection.  
  
A startled gasp choked in Sam’s throat as Dean took Sam’s cock in his hands like he’d grasp his own, beating off in the shower. Dean stroked it twice, vaguely aware of how Sam liked it. Sam clenched his eyes shut as his head thudded back against the wall.  
  
“Bet you never hear any complaints,” Dean purred, Sam’s cock twitching at the words.  
  
_Sam came at Dean’s voice: “Need a hand with that?”_ In retrospect, Dean should’ve taken it as a sign.  
  
“I don’t want this to be…dirty,” Sam pleaded. “I don’t wanna feel dirty, Dean…”  
  
“Just two healthy adults usin’ what God gave ‘em.” Dean’s surprised himself, voice arousal husky. Dean thumbed the ridge of Sam’s head, eliciting a sharp gasp of pleasure. Dean didn’t _think_ Sam turned him on, but, damn, it turned him on to turn Sam on. He recognized the difference.  
  
Dean caressed the soft skin of Sam’s long cock with only the pads of his fingers and thumb, the ticklish sensation making Sam squirm in his jeans, Sam’s laughter involuntary, but a smile twitching at the corner of his lip. When Sam groaned in protest, Dean took the whole thing in his fist and returned to pumping it, up and down the shaft, watching Sam’s face flicker through the extremes of human pleasure.  
  
“…Sammy,” Dean prompted, biting his lower lip with lingering apprehension. He only said more when Sam grunted acknowledgement. “You gonna let me go down on you…?”  
  
Sam blinked blearily at the ceiling, his head fell forward and he looked at his brother, completely incredulous.  
  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“…and here I really thought you were gonna twist my arm.” Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow.  
  
“If _anybody_ \--”  
  
“No. No can do,” Dean interjected, no leeway for argument. Dean wanted to see Sam happy. Dean wanted to see Sam relax. But getting head from his little brother, or anything as intimate as that, and Dean had to draw a line.   
  
“I put you through a lot, man…” Sam’s sounded incredibly contrite for a man accepting a hand job, Dean’s hand still sliding slowly over that soft skin.  
  
“You’re high maintenance,” Dean agreed, with a roguish, conspiratorial grin. “But you don’t owe me anything. Comes in the package with ‘brother.’” Dean swallowed, emotion lumping in his throat. “This? …well, this is the special edition DVD.”  
  
Sam’s expression emboldened into sappy gratitude -- so Dean gave Sam’s cock a squeeze and a few vigorous pumps until Sam couldn’t see straight and gasped for air.  
  
“Alright, cowboy,” Dean murmured, that smooth, seductive lilt to his voice that he saved for the women. “Lose the pants. Sit on the bed.” Dean released his hold on Sam’s fully erect dick.  
  
Sam obeyed orders. No questions, not today. He kicked his shoes off and stumbled to his feet, half-braced against the wall, while he pushed his pants down around his ankles. He stripped off one sock and then the other and then collapsed down onto the edge of the bed in his boxers with his prick hanging out. Brow furrowed and not-completely-self-sure anticipation on his face.  
  
Dean chuckled silently, shoulders shaking, as he climbed up from the floor. He shrugged his long sleeve button-up off his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stripped his t-shirt over his head.  
  
If it was his body Sam wanted, Dean had abs to spare.   
  
Dean nudged Sam’s legs apart with his knee, cracked his knuckles, smiling proud and sure when, in reality, his heart hammered bloodlessly light in the cavity of his chest. Sam flustered, like Dean guessed a guy _had_ to fluster when his brother geared up to suck him off.  
  
“Dean, have you…ever done this before?”   
  
“What?” Dean wrinkled his nose. “No. No way.” Sam didn’t look reassured. “It’s not like I need an instruction manual,” Dean elaborated. He lowered himself down between Sam’s knees and came face to face with his brother’s cock.  
  
It could’ve been less attractive, rising up out of Sam’s dark, coarse curls, curving slightly towards Sam’s body with a left hand lean, well formed and substantial. Blue veins formed roadmaps beneath the thin, taut skin, and the soft pink head was smooth and sloping. A good cock. But of course Sam had a nice dick. (He’d been raised by Dean Winchester.)  
  
Dean’s glanced askance to Sam’s thigh, while Sam breathed in uncertainly, no idea exactly what to expect. Thigh dusted with light brown hairs, scattered constellations of moles speckled Sam’s pale skin. Dean shifted to the side to press a kiss against one small, dark spot on Sam’s flesh, and flicked the tip of his tongue out to taste it. A groan leaked from Sam’s throat, and Dean remained aware of his captivated one man audience.  
  
Dean kissed his way up Sam’s thigh, from one mole to the next, inside and on the top, weaving a meandering course, as Sam began to sound short of breath. Dean could barely believe this. It was unbelievable. Sam: so independent, so headstrong and ready to make his own way in the world, hungry for the touch of an older brother he’d once shut out of his life. Hungry for the touch of his older brother, at all.  
  
Dean pressed his tongue against his upper, then lower lip. He glanced up at Sam, back, now, at that eager organ. A pulse of pleasure ached in Dean’s own cock at his brother’s total absorption in this, in him. Looking up the man’s long body, Dean remembered, again, that Sam was _huge_ \-- broad chest, thick neck, wide shoulders, long arms, and large hands -- and what Dean had in front of him was like the arcade stick to the whole machine. It empowered him at the same the same time the ignominy of this act drove home in his stomach when he looked in Sam’s squinted eyes.   
  
Dean dropped his gaze, rose up on his knees, and wrapped his lips around his little brother. Sam stopped breathing, and Dean imagined his face, eyes shut, brow deeply creased, lip maybe curled like when Dean saw Sam touching himself. Dean’s lips slid easily over Sam’s skin. Dean’s first impression: Sam’s cock tasted sour, like all skin on first lick, but flavored with salty, fresh sweat. By the time Sam exhaled, Dean had found himself a rhythm, but no way to go down on the whole, monster thing.  
  
Dean lapped at the head, explored it with his tongue, tracing the v-shaped groove where the head rose out of the shaft, before his lips broke suction with a wet smack, and Dean caught up on air, and then went down again. He heard Sam’s fingers dig against the comforter, and felt the tension under his hand as Sam’s thighs flexed and relaxed. Dean’s lips slipped off Sam’s cock with another saliva-slick pop, and he sized up the whole long organ while Sam breathed hard above him.  
  
Sam had leaned back on his hands to support himself, and behind Sam’s prick, where Sam’s shirt rode up on his waist, a gradually expanding trail of hair descended from Sam’s navel and down beneath the waistband of his boxers. That dark triangle caught Dean’s eye, and for a minute, he could imagine Sam naked on his back, and dipping his tongue in Sam’s navel, following that path lower until he found Sam’s cock waiting between Sam’s legs, soft, only half-aroused.  
  
Dean saw himself doing this again.  
  
“Dean…?”  
  
Dean gulped, befuddled, and took a deep breath. He put on a smile, looking up coyly.  
  
“So is my mouth good, or what?”  
  
Sam got that look on his face like he’d started to _realize_ he was receiving oral sex from his brother.  
  
Dean made the executive decision to go in for Sam’s cock, sucking on the side, one spot, and then another, then licking slowly from the base up the bold vein at its center. He closed his mouth over it briefly, and suckled on the head (precum tangy at the slit of it), the memory of forty one-night stands and Cassie’s lips and tongue guiding him on. From the noise that Sam made, it sounded like he’d forgotten everything but Dean’s mouth.  
  
Dean understood the feeling, the world boiling down to the size and taste of Sam’s dick and the pleasure it could provoke in Sam’s body.  
  
He drew back, and took another eyeful of Sam’s sex face, all screwed up, so damn sexy -- surrendering everything, and desperate to cross that finish line. Dean closed his hand around the shaft of Sam’s penis, and Sam’s hips flinched into his grasp. A bubble of precum swelled and popped from Sam’s slit, as the clear, slippery fluid leaked over the head of Sam’s cock. Dean watched it pool into a drip as he milked at Sam’s erection, until it dribbled off in a syrupy string. He leaned in, impulsively, to lick that pink slit clean, and was surprised, on second taste, to place it so similar to the taste of a woman’s cunt. (Sam scoffed disbelief at that sudden, intense stimulation.)  
  
Dean fit Sam’s dick into the o-shape of his mouth one last time, determined, now, to bring Sam off -- still at odds on the eternal dilemma of “spit” or “swallow.” Sam bumped up against his hand in little jerks and Dean pulled up and pushed down in time. When Sam came hard with a breathless cry Dean swallowed, at first, until it dribbled down his chin, the taste acerbic-sweet (Dean expected that, he’d tasted his own). Sam’s cock fell out of Dean’s mouth before Dean choked, the last spurt of cum hot on the side of his face.  
  
“Dude!” he moaned, slapping a hand on his brow to wipe the stuff off. “You got jizz in my eye!”   
  
“What the hell?” Sam muttered, still reeling and barely coherent.  
  
“It burns like--…Son of a bitch! Fuck!” Dean fell back on his ass, palm smearing semen across his chin.  
  
Sam leaned forward on the bed, blinking dumbly at him.  
  
Before he started to laugh.  
  
“Come on! Wet wash cloth!” Dean begged, miserably, and collapsed onto his back, cheap motel carpet abrasive on bare, aroused skin.  
  
Sam laughed all the way to the bathroom. Dean heard him hit the doorframe and congratulated himself (because his brother couldn’t walk straight), while his eye cried out the blinding sting.  
  
 

\----

  
  
Ten minutes later, still holding a wash cloth to his face, and after being led to the sink to rinse his eye out, Dean found himself curled pathetically on the bed, with his little brother pressing calming kisses to the sun tanned skin of his shoulder.   
  
“You win at oral sex, dude.” (A kiss.)  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Dude, you cried.”   
  
“Shut _up_.” (And _that_ was gonna be a hickey.)  
  
“You are my _favorite_ brother.” Sam’s laughter bubbled up again.  
  
(Small, sloppy kisses, now, all in a row.)  
  
“I swear to Christ, man, I will _shut_ you up.”  
  
Sam moved in closer, shifting on the bed, to lick the hollow behind Dean’s ear, and Dean closed his hurting eyes.  
  
“I’m sorry.” The guy could make it sound so fucking saccharine.   
  
(Sam’s teeth scraped over the stubble on Dean’s jaw.)  
  
“…last thing I need is some dumb mutt slobberin’ over me after I got his _spooge_ all over my face.” When Dean opened his eyes, Sam had that halogen headlight smile on his face, and any lingering resentment for what might have been the worst eye trauma in an entire lifetime of frequent bodily harm slipped quietly out through the back door. “Worth it?”  
  
“ _Completely_ worth it,” Sam swore, crossing his heart.  
  
“Work your incestuous fantasies out of your system?” Dean held up a hand before Sam could speak. “I know. I have irresistible charisma. Don’t blame yourself. It was an _animal_ attraction.”  
  
“…if you were even a little worse looking, Dean, you would still be a virgin. Right now. Today.”   
  
“You know you love me, bitch,” Dean said, and it felt good right down to his bones and the mostly-soft remainder of his hard on.  
  
“Whatever.” Sam rolled his eyes, but that smile stretched back a second later, uninvited.  
  
Dean liked this Sam. The Sam that joked around. The Sam not slogging through each week sinking further in his own fear and misery.   
  
Dean knew it wouldn’t, couldn’t last. Not as long as that yellow-eyed demon waited for his brother in darkness. Not as long as Hendrickson and his stooge followed ten steps behind but maybe, someday, closing in. And even the two of them half naked in bed together came with its own burdens. The burden of incest. The burden of sin. The burden of knowing that their father in Hell would weep in shame if he saw them.  
  
Dean felt all those burdens weighing down his heart. But he could shoulder them. He could shoulder anything, he told himself, if it was for Sam.   
  
“How about you put some pants on and we find that beer,” Dean flirted. Earlier, he might have wanted to beat off. (Beat off. About sexing up his brother.) Right now, all he wanted was to drink the pain in his swollen right eye away.  
  
Sam began to climb off the bed, mission accepted, but he stopped, and glanced back at Dean. Smile falling off his face. He moved in for the kill, swiftly and silently, claiming Dean’s lips, cupping Dean’s left cheek with its fading bruise of a shiner and pushing him up against the headboard of the bed.  
  
Sam kissed him one long minute, excruciatingly sweet and slow. Dean reached up and buried a hand in his brother’s long, scruffy hair, fingers curling against Sam’s scalp, erection a little curious, but too demoralized to poke up.  
  
They broke apart without any words, and Sam slipped off the bed to pick up his clothes. Dean watched Sam’s back and the backs of Sam’s long thighs as Sam stepped into his pants, until he’d drawn them over miles of bare skin to his waistline. Dean knew Sam turned him on, and this wasn’t only about making his little brother happy. He recognized the difference.  
  
Dean tried to accept, down in his gut, that the two of them were, basically, fucked. 


End file.
